The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “You have that right.” He nodded. “Just in case, I’ll increase the number of guards.”

  “Make sure the drunkards don’t wander around Sigtuna. Tell them to stay in the guesthouse. I don’t want any fights.”

  But the command had come too late; before she had finished speaking to Wilkomir, they heard shouts from the yard. Ulf bounded into her bedchamber, his face twisted in distress as she had never seen before.

  “They kidnapped Olof, my lady!”

  “What?”

  “The boy went to heed the call of nature, they must have been waiting behind the manor. They dragged him to the guesthouse. I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them!”

  “Jesus Christ! They kidnapped my son in my own home? Tell them that if a single hair on the boy’s head is harmed, neither will leave Sigtuna alive.”

  “I’ll kill them!”

  “Calm down!” Wilkomir shouted at him. “They are holding the boy. We must act with caution.”

  “Yes,” Świętosława replied. “Wilkomir, go to them. Tell them that they should all be in the house I gave them. I will go to them shortly.”

  She went, clutching the leash in her hand, and Great Ulf and his men surrounded her. Wilkomir’s men surrounded the guesthouse. There was an angry crowd of locals in the yard.

  “It’s preposterous,” she announced as she walked into the hall. “Where is King Olof?”

  Wsiewołod was holding the boy by his shoulder.

  “Here,” he growled.

  “Give me my son back,” she said, counting the people as she looked around. There were no more than thirty.

  “You must apologize to us first, my lady. For the embarrassment you’ve caused us.”

  “A woman should not belittle a man, even if she is a queen,” Harald added, stepping forward.

  She was seething. She could let her lynxes off their leash. She could give the order to Wilkomir. But they still had Olof. Her child. And suddenly, the maelstrom in her soul subsided, as if someone had thrown a block of ice into the pot.

  “I understand that you expect the kind of apology that women usually offer to men?” She laughed.

  “Yes.” Wsiewołod’s eyes gleamed greedily. He even licked his lips.

  “Yes, my lady.” Harald still looked like a hound, tensed before he pounced.

  “And do men go to the bathhouse in your countries before they invite women into their beds?”

  “Are you saying we’re dirty?” Wsiewołod shook Olof.

  “No,” she said with a smile. “But I’d like for you to freshen up before your night with the queen. Wilkomir? Are the fires in the bathhouse burning?”

  “Like every night, my lady.”

  “Very well. Let us not delay any longer. Take my suitors to the bathhouse. Their men can spend the night here, drinking Queen Sigrid’s health. My son comes back to me. Olof…” She reached out a hand.

  Wsiewołod was already letting go of the boy, but Harald stopped him, placing his hand on Olof’s head.

  “How do we know this isn’t a trap?” he asked suspiciously.

  She laughed melodically.

  “I really don’t understand my suitors. They are angry if I point out their weaknesses. But when I invite them to the bathhouse, they are afraid.”

  Harald pulled Olof’s hair, then pushed him toward her.

  “Do not accuse us of cowardice, my lady. We’ve had enough of your games. This is to be a proper apology.”

  She saw Harald shake Olof’s hair from his fingers. She reached out a hand and grabbed her son, giving him the leash with the lynxes.

  “Oh, I assure you, it will be. Harald and Wsiewołod. You promised me today a game of comparisons, wrestling, and one at being king. I will happily play them all when you come out of the bathhouse. I will wait for you, so don’t test my patience. Ulf, walk the men out.”

  She left with Olof without turning around.

  “Have they hurt you, son?” she asked him quietly.

  “No,” he replied with annoyance, rubbing his head in the spot where Harald had pulled his hair. “They embarrassed me.”

  “And they insulted me. I will not forgive them, because if I show them mercy, more like them will venture here,” she replied firmly. “Go inside with Wrzask and Zgrzyt, and no matter what, don’t come back out.”

  “Mother … you won’t go with them, will you?”

  “No, son. I will only escort them and ensure the bathhouse is warm enough.”

  She stood in the yard, watching Ulf lead Wsiewołod and Harald into the bathhouse at the back of the manor. She watched Wilkomir lead all his men out of the guesthouse where the suitors’ men were settled. She watched servants with jugs of mead enter. She counted them. One, two, three … six. And she counted to six as they filed back out. That’s when she nodded to Wilkomir, saying:

  “Bar the door.”

  When the doors had been closed from the outside, she called out to her people and servants standing outside:

  “Women will carry water, men wood.”

  Then she walked to the bathhouse beside the guesthouse. Great Ulf and his men surrounded the small wooden building. Steam poured from the smoke hole.

  “Close the door,” she told him. “And set fire to it from outside. Let them bathe in flames.”

  No one questioned her. In a matter of moments, both buildings were on fire. Shouts erupted from them. The servants with buckets of water waited, silent, ensuring the fire didn’t spread to any of the other buildings.

  “They broke the laws of hospitality by abducting my son. They will not know any more hospitality from me,” she called out.

  “Bold lady.” Great Ulf touched her shoulder and pointed at the people surrounding them. “Look at them. They’re proud that their queen didn’t allow anyone to mock her. You need not explain yourself to anyone.”

  She looked around. It wasn’t a drunken crowd, like on the night of Birger’s death. A crowd that didn’t know what they were doing. These were people who decided to punish the sinners as consciously as she did.

  She took Wilkomir and Ulf to one side.

  “From this day onward, you divide your duties. You, Ulf, stay with me. And you, Wilkomir, don’t leave Olof for a single moment. My son has become the victim of an attack for a second time, it cannot happen again. And one more thing: if we are ever faced with any kind of danger and you are forced to choose who to protect, you must always choose Olof. Do you understand? That’s an order. He is the heir to the throne.”

  No shouts had been heard for a few moments now. The bathhouse collapsed first, followed shortly by the guesthouse. The servants poured water over the cinders and began to clean up after the ghastly fire without a word. She had turned to leave when Ion approached her.

  “I have heard of burning fields,” he laughed. “But to separate the grain from weeds by fire, that is new to me. You’re bringing in novel traditions, my lady. Do you think your subjects might give you a new name? Sigrid Storråda. Bold Lady. Now it’s time for you to be the Fiery One. Or ‘The one who greets her suitors with flames.’”

  “Stop. This doesn’t entertain me,” she snarled.

  She could still smell the fire.

  “You had no choice once again, my lady.” He patted her arm. “But now you might finally be able to make up your own mind regarding your future marriage. You won’t stop people from talking. They’ll spread stories. You’ve sent a clear message out into the world.”

  I hope that he hears it, too, she thought.

  “You’ve shown everyone that you will not tolerate mediocre proposals. It won’t be long now before, and your Ion can promise you this, a real royal suitor appears. If I had the prophet’s gift, I’d say your king is already sailing to you.”

  PART III

  A STORM FROM A CLEAR SKY

  The Second Crown

  995–997

  38

  NORWAY

  Summer glinted on the water in the reflected light of a sated sun. The golden glow
swayed on the waves. A new moon soaked the dusk with darkness, like a cloak thrown over a flaming fire. The cold new moon complicated sailors’ plans, mocking the helmsmen keeping a lookout after dark. The new moon which brought about sudden changes of the wind, dark clouds appearing as if from nowhere, or from beyond the horizon. As if the future would be decided beyond its limits. The wind rocked the ships until they lost their rhythm.

  * * *

  Olav had left most of his fleet in Viken, under his mother’s husband Lodin’s protection. He set out modestly on his journey, taking only three boats. He wanted to slip through the Øresund Strait unnoticed, and that wasn’t easy on its narrow waters. Older sailors said Øresund was like a too-tight trouser leg. He had no choice but to squeeze through it.

  This route took them too near Roskilde for Olav’s liking, where Harald Bluetooth had resided in his great manor. Olav’s scouts assured him that Sven was busy building alliances in Jelling, the seat of power he’d built himself while his father was still alive; but if the shore guards spotted his boats Olav would be facing trouble enough. They sailed through the narrowest part at night, with the wind in their favor; Kanugård sliding over the waves.

  “My king commands even the winds. He’s his own weather vane,” Varin joked when, at dawn, they finally escaped the claws of the Danish straits and reached the open waters of the Baltic.

  “Don’t mock,” Olav said. “The ocean doesn’t like bragging, and neither do I. The weather vane will return to the mast once we’re farther north and in safer waters.”

  He’d had it removed for their journey, because its golden plates proudly reflected the sun, attracting attention, which was exactly what he was trying to avoid. If luck truly was still with him, they’d arrive before the autumn storms and in seven, at most eight days he’d sail into Mälaren Bay.

  He left Varin by the helm, and walked to the starboard side. The water glimmered with shades of green and steel. He had sailed here four years ago, on his way back from attacking Denmark, alongside his brothers-in-law and at the request of the great Piast duke.

  Afterward, he’d taken a sharp course south, stopping at Jomsborg. Astrid had been waiting for him in port, with the news of Geira’s death. He flinched at the memory. Was it only four years ago? It seemed to him that his life with Geira was an eternity away. He didn’t want to remember. That time was darkness. He thought instead of the spring full moon and the stone circles on the island of Scilla. Of the old man who chewed on his words. Longing, desire, dissatisfaction, my boy. The terribly ancient curse. The old gods cast it on you, though they say this curse will bring you great fame. Your hope lies in the new. Perhaps He will want to change it? You’ve been marked, that’s certain. I’ve seen your arrival a hundred times in my dreams. But have you been chosen? Let the new God tell you. Christ’s answer, given through the freezing waters of baptism, still pulsed with light inside of him, as if the silver full moon never ended. Sometimes, though, it was covered by thick clouds.

  I am surrounded by blind men, he thought, breathing in the humid, salty air and looking at the gray line of land in the distance. Blind men who I must return sight to. Even if I must lift their eyelids with the point of a knife. I have promised God, and I will keep my word, as He did.

  * * *

  His first steps in his homeland had been different than he’d expected. He’d had too much time to imagine it over all those years of longing. In his dreams, the ground shook under his feet when he stepped ashore, but the rocks of Viken did not differ much from the countless others at which he had anchored in the past. The moss was green, like everywhere else, not bright like in Scilla. Maybe the wealth of dark lilac flowers matched what he’d remembered from his mother’s stories. She was sweet and affectionate. She had looked at him with pride when Omold the bard spoke of the conquest of England. She wiped away her tears in secret. “I see your father in you, Olav,” she’d said. “And much, much more, if his memory will forgive me for saying. You’ve already gained more fame than he ever had with your conquests in England.”

  “I didn’t do it for fame, Mother. Only for the silver and men who will follow me.”

  Lodin, his mother’s husband, was a cautious man. His dark hair was peppered with gray, but his back was still straight. “Is it true that you’ve been baptized?” he asked.

  “It’s true,” Olav replied. His mother paled, and he saw the nervous finger movements which she quickly hid inside the sleeve of her dress. Lodin settled for gritting his teeth.

  “And your men?” he asked after a long pause.

  “All of them. Every single one. Who doesn’t want baptism chooses death.”

  Lodin peered at Olav from under bushy eyebrows, and he called for the servants to fill his goblet more often than usual that night.

  Olav allowed himself many days in Viken, getting to know his family. First, his older sisters, who had stayed in Norway under the care of relatives when his mother escaped east with him in her belly. One had her name, Astrid, the other was called Ingebjorg. He looked in their eyes and searched for his father, but they both resembled his mother. Then, the two younger girls, Lodin’s daughters, his half sisters, Ingireda and Ingigerda. And the boy, Torkil. If he’d met them without knowing who they were, he thought, he wouldn’t have felt anything, as if they shared no blood. Even his mother … the one he had missed for so many years in Rus. The one he’d searched for so stubbornly that he allowed Mieszko to push him into Geira’s arms to pay for finding her. His mother also seemed different to him than before. Sweet and affectionate, but a stranger. Their first meeting eight years ago had passion in it. They had showered each other with embraces, memories, tears of joy. A mother and son, reunited after years, like survivors of a shipwreck after weeks of wandering on uncharted waters, finally seeing a stretch of land.

  Now, he looked at them and felt only pity, for their eyes were blind to the Lord’s truth. They cared about poor harvests, worried about cattle, feared lest there not be enough fish in the next catch. “Yes, yes.” His mother nodded. “You’re King Tryggve’s son, it’s no strange thing that you’re consumed by kingly matters.” He sensed the fear which underlay those words. By saying “You’ve already gained more fame than your father,” she seemed to add silently: “And that’s enough, son, enough now.” Lodin’s love had cured Astrid of her desire for revenge. His affections and the children he gave her healed the old wounds. His mother rejoiced that her son had returned, but she’d have preferred to see him build a great house on a hill, sitting in the hall with his wife, rather than preparing to fight for his throne. He bit his tongue and said nothing, but he looked at her, knowing she would see old Tryggve in his eyes.

  He saw the dirt, the dark layer smothering the souls of them all, stuffing their ears and covering their eyes. Until, one day, his mother couldn’t take it anymore, and she began to cry. “Your father had a hard stare,” she sobbed, “but you, son, have hardened steel in your eyes.” And so, his family gave in, bending their knees to the Lord. He allowed Sivrit to baptize them, and when they cleansed their souls, he could love them once more. And he entrusted them with his plan.

  He had been working on it for years, changing and adapting it as he listened to news of Norway during sleepless nights on the Isle of Wight or in the stone walls of Bamburgh. No, he wasn’t surprised that he had been offered betrayal right from the start. He had expected it, like Judas’s kiss, and offered his cheek.

  He’d still been in England when Jarl Haakon sent messengers to him. They were supposed to tempt Olav with the promise that when the old jarl died, the people would wait for him. But he had kept men in Norway for two years. He called them his sleeping guards, and they were only meant to listen, watch, and wait for a sign. And he had the scout Halvard and the strange twins, who divided each sentence into two. He knew that old Haakon was alive and was trying to trap him.

  He’d sailed straight to Norway anyway, with Kanugård’s golden weather vane announcing his arrival, and with thirty shi
ps, his part of the army once known as the Two Kings. This show of strength had been enough for the old jarl to flee back to land from the ship in which he had been awaiting Olav, leaving one of his sons behind him to face Olav on the water. This young one wasn’t either of the two who had searched for help from Eric in Sweden long ago.

  “The last of the young ones leaped in to feed the eels, my arrow in his arse,” Ingvar concluded, though Omold the bard desperately wanted to add a rhyme to it. The jarl’s fleet was divided into those who turned and fled after their master, and those who surrendered to Olav. Bishop Sivrit taught them the truth of faith swiftly; the ones who understood stayed with him, the others went under the axe. Rafn became the executioner, the same Rafn who had thrown slaver corpses overboard from the Wolverine.

  All the men from the old crew, the one he’d left Rus with, were baptized first. “We are connected by too much, King,” Varin said, “to be divided by a god.” Each one, after years of plundering England, was rich enough to sail wherever he wanted and live on the silver in his chest until the end of his days. But none of them wanted a separate fate. “Where you go, we’ll follow,” they said, not bothering with explanations. Those who’d seen English churches and castles, who’d tasted wine from ornamental chalices, who’d accepted danegeld bought with blood, would be no good in a yard at home, keeping servants in their place. They accepted the baptism as if it had been another challenge; as if spreading the Word which comes from the One God was the next land they could conquer.

  When they had scattered Jarl Haakon’s small troop, they didn’t go on land. They stopped at the anchor point, with the open sea behind them and the bay at their bows. Whoever wanted to talk to Olav had to come to Kanugård. He sent squads in search of the jarl, but not because he wanted him found, only to ensure that Haakon had to keep fleeing and hiding. So the jarl’s subjects could see him as the prey he was, shaken by a deadly fear. After a week, perhaps a bit later, a stocky, dark-haired man appeared. A slave known as Kark. In a dirty leather bag, he brought Jarl Haakon’s head. “This is for you, my lord,” he said, throwing the gift at Olav’s feet. The bruises on the jarl’s bloody face and the uneven marks on his neck told the story.